


Some Days

by granite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Binary Grantaire, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granite/pseuds/granite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s seven in the morning when the alarm goes off. It blares and shouts at him, it’s a piercing noise to which Enjolras groans and shoves his head into the pillow like an ostrich into the ground.<br/>"Come on, up and at em', sunshine."<br/>"No."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days

It’s seven in the morning when the alarm goes off. It blares and shouts at him, it’s a piercing noise to which Enjolras groans and shoves his head into the pillow like an ostrich into the ground.

“Turn that ungodly thing off,” Grantaire mutters, shifting next to him and pressing a warm calf between his ankles.

The alarm is on Grantaire’s side though, so he ignores everything and closes his eyes in a cheap imitation of sleeping.

“Ugh,” Grantaire slaps the alarm louder than the actual beeping and turns to wrestle the pillow from Enjolras. “Come on, up and at em’, sunshine.”

“No.” Enjolras clings stubbornly to the pillow and Grantaire gives up.

“You’re gonna’ miss your class.”

“No.”

“Alright, well, I’m gonna’ go shower.” They run a finger down Enjolras’ chest and follows the line of his pelvis. “Feel free to join me.” The water turns on a moment later and he hears the echo of Grantaire’s humming.

He gets up.

**

Thirty minutes and two orgasms later, Enjolras thinks maybe his day is shaping up. Grantaire opens a window so that after their shower, they lie in bed side by side with Enjolras reading and Grantaire with a sketchbook over their lap. It’s nice, they don’t get mornings like this often and it’s over too soon. Grantaire shuts their sketchbook with a sigh and rolls off the bed.

“Are you leaving already?”

“Got a lot of appointments.” They stuff the sketchbook in their bag and leans across the bed to kiss Enjolras goodbye, only they stop a few inches from his lips before they pull back slightly and catch a strand of blonde hair between their fingers.

“It must be humid outside,” they comment, twirling the frizzy hair.

“Guess so.”

“Think it’s gonna’ rain?”

“Maybe.” Enjolras replies and Grantaire hums in response and brings their lips together sweetly.

“See you tonight.”

“See you.”

When Enjolras is finally finished reading he drags himself from the bed and toward the coffee machine. Grantaire has left it on, his favorite mug resting inconspicuously in front of it. It’s empty, clean, and moonlighting as a paperweight. Stuck under it is a sketch of Enjolras reading with his hair still wet and in the corner Grantaire has written, in their lazy cursive:

Don’t forget your umbrella. I love you.

**

Enjolras is feeling good. Great, even. He stands up and gathers his laptop and book and is about to shove them into his tight bag when someone shoves him from behind. The laptop falls to the floor and the notes stuffed into his book scatter onto the floor. By the time he snatches up his laptop and turns around, the person is gone.

“Enjolras?” Larmaque calls just as he’s about to step out of the door. He turns around and smiles, making his way back to the front.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Is your computer alright?”

“My w—oh, yes. It is, thank you.”

“Good. I wished to discuss your last paper, if you have a few minutes.”

“Of course.”

“I found the time to grade most of them last night, and I’d like to be honest with you, I was very disappointed with your work.”

“Oh.” His stomach drops and shame burns at his cheeks, heavy in the pit of his stomach. How bad must he have done for his professor, his mentor, to reprimand him?

“You are my brightest student, Enjolras, and I know what you are capable of. That was not it.”

“I understand.”

“I know the effort you put into your studies, and I want to help you succeed. What you gave me would be considered very well done by the criteria of any other professor, but I consider it subpar. Improvement leaves no room for standards.”

“I know.” He admits, eyes burning. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, son. You’re selling yourself short. You have potential, much more than you realize.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

She smiles and rests a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’ll be expecting more from you.”

**  
He practically trips over himself running from the lecture hall. When he plops down on a bench outside the building, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop the burning and takes a few deep breaths. It took him a whole week to write that paper, and he doesn’t even know what he did wrong. He’ll have to see Larmarque for extra office hours, ask to go over it together, pick it through with a comb and fix it, make it better, whatever he did wrong. It’s fixable. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just a paper. It’s just a grade. It’s fine, really. It’s—his phone is ringing.

The hands come away from his face and he tugs it from his pocket. A part of him wants to hope it’ll be Grantaire but when he sees the face on the lit screen he hits the ignore button. It goes to his voicemail before immediately ringing again.

“Hello.” He answers.

“Enjolras! Hello.”

“How’re you, mother?” He says, convinces himself he actually cares. A drop of rain catches his forehead and he wipes it off, internally cursing the clouds.

“I’m calling to ask if you received the charity gala invitation.”

“It came.”

“I wasn’t sure, since we never received your RSVP. You were planning on coming though, right?” She asks, feigning innocence and Enjolras thinks he has never hated anyone so much.

“No, I’m not coming to your charity gala.”

“I thought you might be pleased,” she huffs. “Given that donating to charity was your idea.”

“It’s a waste of money you could be spending on giving to organizations who need funding. Instead, you’re throwing a blowout for all your friends where you pretend you care, and they pretend they care, but nobody actually cares. You’re feeding the system and calling it charity so you can show off, blow money, blow the senator and—”

“Are you finished?” She interrupts.

“And cradle each other’s egos until their fat and so very pleased with themselves for making a difference. It’s disgusting.”

“Would you rather I donated nothing at all?”

“No, that’s not wha—”

“Well then, that’s settled. You’ll come. Would you like to bring a plus one? How is Combeferre doing?”

“Combeferre’s fine, but I’d rather bri—”

“Oh,” She coughs over the rest of his sentence. “You’re not still experimenting with that boy are you? The ratty looking one, what was his name? Grant? Garion?”

“Grantaire. Who is not a he.”

“Sure, Grantaire. He is charming, but you ought to bring Combeferre.”

Enjolras doesn’t bother to reply. He hangs up and turns his cell phone off.

**

The rain becomes a soft sprinkle and Enjolras drags his feet toward the Musain and away from the weather but by the time he’s across campus it’s become a moderate drizzle, making the shop a welcome reprieve. The bell above the door chimes and Musichetta appears through the swining doors, smiling charmingly.

“Afternoon, chief.”

“Hello, Chetta. How are you?”

“Wonderful as always. How bout’ you, handsome? You’re looking kinda’ down.”

“I’m alright,” he forces his lips up in a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just a little wet.”

“You want your usual?”

“Please.”

“Comin’ up. Stick around and warm up. Courfeyrac and Jehan are in the back.”

Musichetta hands him his coffee a moment later and he heads back, taking a calming breath before pushing into the room and finding Courfeyrac and Jehan curled up on a small couch Bahorel found on the side of the street last year. Courfeyrac notices him first and shines his bright white teeth Enjolras’ way.

“Enjolras!”

“Hello, Courf. Jehan.” He shifts from foot to foot, places his drink on a table and then picks it back up.

“What’re you doing here? You never come here between classes.”

“Just wanted coffee.” He answers, and the way Courfeyrac’s face falls fills his belly with regret.

“Looks like you found it.”

“Hey,” Jehan says, “Combeferre, Eponine, Courf and I have plans for the Corinth tonight. You should come.”

“Yeah, hey, that would be fun!” Courfeyrac says. “You could invite Grantaire, it’ll be a blast!”  
Enjolras chews on his lip for a minute and thinks about Lamarque, thinks about how she told him he wasn’t good enough. A sliver of panic slides through his chest.

“No, no I can’t. I have work and things, and you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know how it is.” Courfeyrac turns away from him and distracts himself with his phone.  
“I’m sorry, I want to there’s just a lot of work I have to get done and—”

“There is always something, Enjolras.”

“Courfeyrac—” Jehan interrupts.

“No, I mean it. When was the last time we all did something? I can’t even remember.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want you to—”

“It’s fine. Just go. Go work or whatever.”

**

Enjolras leaves his coffee behind and lets the door swing behind him, lets himself lean against the cool wood of the wall for a minute and grind his teeth together to distract him from the way his throat is closing and his eyes are burning.

“You shouldn’t have yelled.” Jehan says, sweet and clear and sharp from inside the room where he’s left the door cracked by accident.

“I know but I just.” Courfeyrac cuts himself off and takes a loud, deep breath. “It just feels like he’s been pushing us away and—”

“It’s alright,” Jehan says at the same time Courfeyrac bursts out, voice cracking “and I miss him so much.”

“Me too.”

Enjolras shifts his balance, peering in just enough to see Courfeyrac’s head buried in Jehan’s sweater, arms hanging loosely at his side like a ragdoll while Jehan wraps his arms around him. He clambers down the hall and stumbles into the main part of the café, avoiding Musichetta when she looks his way.

The sky is dark with clouds and the rain has become a downpour that presses his clothes to his skin and makes his shoes squelch as he walks to his apartment. By the time he reaches the building his body is broken into goosebumps, his teeth are clattering lightly and he’s hoping against all hope that he has someone waiting at home for him.

His jeans are waterlogged and he stands shivering and digging into his pocket for the house key, and then searching his messenger bag. When he can’t find it he bangs on the door for five minutes before cursing. The walls curse back at him.

The bag goes back on his shoulder and he starts walking the mile to Grantaire’s apartment until it occurs to him, a block from his flat that they might not even be home. Maybe they’re still in class. Maybe they, like Courfeyrac, would rather not see Enjolras. Maybe Grantaire is just as disgusted with Enjolras. He almost turns around.

But Grantaire loves him. They said so, and Grantaire is many things but they’re not a liar. Of course they want to see him.

It takes him another miserable half hour before he’s stepping in front of the dingy apartment complex, trudging up the stairs in drenched clothes until he’s standing at his partner’s door. The door is unlocked so he steps in but finds the hallway and living room lights off.

“Grantaire?” No answer.

Toeing off his wet shoes and socks, he pads across the living room and peers his head inside Grantaire’s room. It’s empty, so Enjolras retreats into the bathroom and peels his clothes off before working the water to a suitable temperature and heading into the kitchen.

The cupboards are all but bare of food. He rolls his eyes and pulls the refrigerator open, grabbing an apple thrown into the side door. The first bite reminds him he hasn’t eaten since the morning and the rest of the fruit is inhaled, apple juice running down his chin.

He inspects the photographs stuck haphazardly onto the fridge by cheap tourist magnets. There is a photograph of himself and Grantaire, smiling at the camera outside the Musee de l’Orangerie on their one year anniversary. Next to it is a picture of a dragon Gavroche drew, a photograph of the Amis, a napkin doodle of Enjolras as a revolutionary. He runs a finger of the photograph of him and Grantaire and returns to the bathroom to turn the water off.

The water is a little too hot but it feels good, and when the water finally goes cold he dries himself off, leaves the towel in the hamper and crawls between the sheets of Grantaire’s bed, pressing his face into their pillow.

**

Grantaire hauls themself up the stairs of their apartment complex, looking forward to changing into dry clothes and maybe reheating the Chinese in their fridge.

Kicking off their shoes by the door, they’re shocked to find a pair of sopping red converse already there, sitting neatly next to Enjolras’ bag. They moves further into the house to investigate, but the house is dead, no light filtering from any of the rooms, no sounds quickening the air.

“’Jolras?”

No answer is forthcoming, but when they walks into the kitchen, shrugging off their jacket and throwing it onto the couch, there’s an apple core sitting on the counter, brown along the edges. The house smells faintly clean, the soft scent of their own shampoo lingering in the air so they pokes their head into the bathroom and finds a pile of clothes in the hamper. They pull them out and is about to shove them in the drier when their hand grips something solid in the pocket and they extracts Enjolras’ phone. The screen stays black when they press the home button so they try to turn it on, crossing their fingers that there’s no water damage.

It turns on without a problem and pings with a dozen missed calls. They shuffles into their bedroom, pushing the door open gently and noting the lump under their covers, familiar blonde curls poking out of the mound and spilling onto the pillow. Setting the phone on the bedside, they lean over to place a soft kiss on the tiny spot of Enjolras’ head that’s visible and leaves, shutting the door gently behind them.

They turn on the T.V. and it illuminates the dark room with just enough light for them to open the sketchbook they left on the coffee table and begin doodling. Halfway through a cartoon rendition of a landscape, they hear Enjolras’ phone ring, go to voicemail, only to start up again. Two minutes later, their own vibrates in their pocket and when they pull it out, Combeferre’s smiling is lighting the screen.

“Hey, ‘Ferre.” The phone is placed against their ear, held tight by their shoulder while they pick the sketchbook back up.

“Hello, Grantaire.” He greets.

“What can I do for you on this fine day?”

“Is Enjolras with you?”

“Sure is. Why?”

“He’s usually home by the time my classes finish, and Musichetta called to ask me if Enjolras was okay but he isn’t answering his phone.”

“Oh. Well, he’s in my bed sleeping like a baby boy burrito.”

“Alright. Thank you.”

“Any idea what happened?”

“Courfeyrac said something. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Okay, I’ll have him text you later.”

“Thank you, Grantaire.”

“See you around.”

“Goodbye.”

**

Half an hour later, the bedroom door cracks open, Enjolras appearing through the doorway, dragging his feet sleepily and closing the door behind him, wearing a pair of Grantaire’s sweats. Since he went to bed with wet hair, it’s dried in every direction. He just stands there, rubbing his eyes and frowning. Grantaire tries to smile reassuringly, beckoning him over by holding out an arm and trying to hide their surprise when he comes over immediately, curling up against Grantaire’s side.

Enjolras slides down and lays his head in Grantaire’s lap, facing the T.V. and nuzzling lightly against their thigh when Grantaire’s fingers slide through their boyfriend’s hair, scratching at his scalp.

“I missed you today.” Enjolras mumbles against their leg. Their fingers still for a moment, but Enjolras makes a low whining noise in protest that turns into nothing short of purring when they continue.

“Oh?”

Enjolras only makes an affirmative noise, so Grantaire doesn’t push it.

“I missed you, too.”

They’re both silent, Grantaire persistent in their ministrations until they’re almost sure Enjolras has fallen back asleep, his breathing easy and body still. Grantaire removes their hand from the depths of Enjolras’ hair in favor of running their fingers along the line of his neck, his shoulders. They circle the jut of his hipbone and Enjolras shifts.

“Do you think I’m a bad friend?” He says.

“No.” Grantaire replies instantly, not even stopping their light touches while they consider Enjolras. “I think you’re a wonderful friend.”

“I think you’re biased.”

“I am. Listen, I think you hold yourself to high standards, and it means sometimes you forget your friends. But I don’t think you’re a bad friend. I don’t think Courfeyrac does, either.”

Enjolras turns, shifting on Grantaire’s lap until he’s on his back. From this angle, they can see their boyfriend’s misty eyes. They resume the caresses on Enjolras’ bare chest while he searches their face sadly.

“You want me to break Courfeyrac’s shins? I will, you know.” Grantaire says, twisting the skin of Enjolras’ pecks with their thumb and forefinger. It makes the man smile, so they’re counting it as a win.

“I just had a bad day. It’s not Courf’s fault.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. I just want to lay here.” Enjolras catches their hand and presses a kiss to the knuckle before placing it over his heart. “With you.” Grantaire’s chest feels two sizes too small all of a sudden.

“I love you.” Enjolras tells them.

Grantaire tries to lean down and press a kiss to Enjolras’ lips, but he’s a little too far down. It doesn’t matter though, because Enjolras pushes himself up enough to slot their mouths together.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
